Lights, Drama, Action!
by CoyoteLoon
Summary: Chris, Chef, and the 22 campers are on an old film lot for Season 2! Join us for a story of love, friendship, redemption - and scheming, backstabbing, and drama! The castmates arrive at the film lot, and the teams are drawn up - problems already!
1. Farewell Fair Wawanakwa

**A/N** – This story begins immediately after the conclusion of the Total Drama Drama Drama Drama Island special, establishing its own AU from that point onward. Even though there may be random elements included from the show's second season, this story will completely deviate from the official continuity of Total Drama Action and establish its own little bizarre parallel-universe. While all the characters and relationships will be canon as of TDDDI, and the biographies from the Total Drama Interactive website (at least _mostly),_ that doesn't mean there won't be character development, artistic license, and drama going forward! In fact – I guarantee there will be! No OC's, but I will pick an obscure background character and build up his backstory quite a bit. You'll see why, eventually. So if you don't like relationships on the rocks, hookups that defy the laws of nature, love triangles, desperate alliances, backstabbing, double-crossing, obscure Canadian references, and inexplicable lunacy, then by all means, read no further!

Yes, in case you're wondering, I'm the same CoyoteLoon that wrote a bunch of _Teenage Robot_ stories a few years ago, before leaving fanfictiondom. Well, my current guilty pleasure is _Total Drama Island_, and what can I say? I got the itch to peck away at the keyboard again, and besides, it's good writing practice. I can guarantee that I won't be updating as frequently or as regularly as I used to back in the day, but I'll try my best to make this duct-taped-together kludge of randomness worth your reading time. There's some darn good authors here like Winter-Rae, Imagi, and of course, the Kobold Necromancer (whose confession cam format I've blatantly stolen) that have set the fiction bar way, _waaaay_ up there. Dang you all, and your addictive stories! You're half the reason I'm writing this. I'd also like to remind you that reviews and critiques are welcomed, and appreciated.

Now with that out of the way, let's kick off a fresh batch of misery for our favorite teenagers by turning things over to our handsome host, if we can drag him away from the mirror in his private make-up trailer.

**Chris McLean **– This episode of Total Drama Action is a fan fiction, based on a cartoon series that is _totally_ owned by Cake Studios, Fresh TV, and the Teletoon television network! It contains extreme stunts performed by animated teens, written by a wannabe author who is not making a thin dime off of this, if he knows what's good for him! Not unless he wants his butt sued six ways from Tuesday! Ha-hah! Do _not_ try any of what you read at home. Seriously, you could get _really_ messed up – outside of our camera range. And that would be such a waste! I mean, what's the point in human suffering if I can't use it to get ratings? So sit back, get comfy, open a nice cold bottle of pop. It's time for -

* * *

**LIGHTS, DRAMA, ACTION!**

A "Total Drama Island" Fanfic by CoyoteLoon

**Chapter One** – Farewell, Fair Wawanakwa

* * *

The warm Muskoka sun shone down from a cloudless summer sky, gently highlighting the crests of the waves on Lake Wawanakwa before they washed ashore, bathing the sandy beach with foam. The late morning breeze was just strong enough to set the tall (and obviously imported) coconut trees surrounding the fabulous five-star resort into a hypnotic, swaying dance, like giant, lazy metronomes. Taken as a whole, the combination of the sun, the beach, the waves, and the background calls of distant seagulls might lead a person to conclude that they were lost in a tropical paradise – or at least, as much of a tropical paradise as you could find in Northern Ontario.

And true enough, the Playa des Losers had been a kind of paradise, for the twenty-two teenagers recovering from their eight weeks of torture at the fetid cesspool that was Camp Wawanakwa. Yes, eight weeks of physical, mental, emotional, and intestinal torture (captured on camera for the world to see) that were made only slightly less hideous by the carefree days of life at a world-class luxury resort. Except that today, instead of lounging by the pool, sipping smoothies at the juice bar, or treating themselves to seaweed facials, the campers were scrambling around the Playa in a frenzy of activity. Suitcases were haphazardly piled on top of the deck chairs. Laundry bags filled with dirty underwear were thrown out the windows. A large eighteen-wheeler emblazoned with a _Total Drama_ logo and a rusty, second-hand school bus idled impatiently in front of the Playa, belching brownish exhaust into the air.

Paradise was closing up shop.

Chris McLean checked over his freshly-groomed hair, guiding an errant strand back into place, and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the chaos. He'd only given the campers fifteen minutes' notice that the bus was loading, and nobody was ready. Beaming with annoying glee – the kind that came from watching other people panic – he gestured for his cameraman to start filming, then thrust his arms into the air and grinned with laser-whitened teeth.

"Welcome back, to the Preseason Special, as we prepare to bid a fond farewell to Total … Drama … Island!" Ahhh, he just _loved_ doing the dramatic intro. "Well, things have really kicked into high gear here at the Playa des Losers over the past twenty-four hours. As you all know by now, our favorite lovable oaf Owen won the big prize of a hundred large, but then he decided to roll the dice, and risk it all for a chance at a briefcase filled with a cool million smackeroos! The competition was intense, vicious, and cold-blooded, and after a wicked awesome free-for-all filled with team-ups and double-crosses, nobody got _squat,_ and the million dollar briefcase wound up as shark chow!" He gestured off-screen. "How we doing on that, by the way?"

The camera cut away to show a terrified intern out on the lake, dangling over the side of a rubber raft, with a bucket of chum in one hand and a fishing pole in the other. A fishing pole that had a giant _magnet_ tied to the end of the line. "H-h-heeere, sh-sh-sharkey sharkey sharkey ..." A steel-gray fin pierced the water, heading for the raft ...

Chris smiled dismissively. "All righty then. As I was saying ..."

"AAAAIIIIIIGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!" screamed a voice, followed by the sound of jaws chomping.

"As I was SAYING," huffed Chris, "Season One ended without a winner … just fourteen not-_quite_-losers who came the closest to snagging the case. That means we get to kick the drama up a notch on Season Two, with … Total … Drama … _Action!"_ The camera pulled back from Chris' smile as he made a sweeping gesture towards the familiar Boat of Losers tied at dock, heavily laden down with all manner of boxes, chests, filming equipment, and packing crates. Two of Chris' assistants were grunting in agony as they pushed an industrial dolly, stacked high more boxed equipment, towards the boat, all while under the watchful eye of an impatient Chef. "Even as we speak," Chris continued, "we're packing up the studio gear for the long trip to Toronto, and an abandoned film lot on the shore of Lake Ontario. Isn't that _awesome?!?"_

Another production assistant groaned past, dripping a trail of sweat, carrying a huge box labeled _Chris – skin & face routine – pre-bedtime_. "Get … _bent_ … McLean!" he grumbled, between ragged breaths.

"Make sure and keep that one out of direct sunlight – all natural ingredients, don't ya know." The handsome host rubbed his hands together, and started walking back towards the Playa. "Any-hoo, by this time tomorrow, the sandy shores of Wawanakwa will be fading in our rear-view mirrors, and the TDA convoy will be rolling into the big T-O to throw down some Season Two goodness for all you viewers out there! So to help get you all totally psyched for another season, we're going to chat with the fourteen not-quite-losers who are about to compete for ..."

"Fifteen!" shouted an angry voice, rushing towards him. "That's _fifteen_, Chris!"

The host's shoulders slumped, and he massaged a sudden throbbing in his left temple. He didn't even bother to look; it could only be one person, the same person who'd been hounding him every fifteen minutes since the end of the briefcase hunt. A furious Courtney stormed onto the dock, manila folders tucked under both arms, fighting to juggle four different sections of her thick TDI contract that she'd marked up with sticky notes. Chris sighed in exasperation. "Looks like we're starting off with everyone's favorite CIT, Courtney!" His game-show grin dissolved into a pout. "Hey, I had thirty-five seconds of monologue left ..."

"Who cares, Chris?!?" she snapped, hammering her finger at a highlighted portion of her contract. "Focus your squinty little peepers on this! Section Eight, Paragraph C, Item 12!" She grinned, with a look of triumph in her eyes. "HA! I told you there was no way you were keeping me out of Season Two. It reads, and I quote: 'All signatories shall be bound …'" - she excitedly rambled off thirty more seconds of legalese while Chris rolled his eyes - "'... pursuant to the exercise of said option clause.' In other words, if any of us are in Season Two, then all of us are!"

"Courtney, Courtney, _Courtney_," Chris cackled smugly, with a patronizing shake of his head. "I'll tell you the same thing I told your lawyer-monkey over the phone. Focus your precious little peepers on …" - he produced a magnifying glass from somewhere, and flipped the contract to the final page - "this little beauty."

Courtney snatched the magnifying glass from Chris' hands and gazed at a fine gray line, immediately above her signature at the very bottom of the last page. To her horror, it resolved itself into a line of fine print. "Override Clause … all terms of this contract are subject to spontaneous amendment at the discretion of the host … wait – spontaneous amendment?!? WH-WHAT?!?"

"Ka-ZING!" laughed Chris, enjoying the dumbfounded look on her face. "You really should have read this thing _before_ you signed it. I've said it before and I'll say it again – _love_ the fine print! Heh-heh, I feel like celebrating with a mochaccino." The host turned away from the stammering girl, and snapped his fingers at a passing blond intern lugging two heavy suitcases. "Hey, you! Mochaccino me! Pronto."

The intern sighed, turned around, and slunked back towards the kitchen. Chris left behind high-pitched shouts of protest, and resumed his leisurely stroll towards the crowded and frantically busy pool area, motioning for his cameraman to follow. "While Courtney comes to grip with cold, hard, reality," he chuckled, "let's check in on the rest of our motley crew and see how they're getting ready for next season. Some, like the fourteen not-quite-losers, are no doubt excited about their chance to win a million bucks! The others, who didn't even make the not-quite-loser cut … we'll just refer to them as the uber-losers ..."

"Hey!" shouted Courtney.

"... must be licking their wounds, and wondering where it all went so horribly wrong. All right, let's see who wants to go first …"

Inconveniently, though, none of the other campers were even paying attention to him.

Tyler ran past him, heaving for breath, with Lindsay's portable wardrobe mounted on his back, while she and Beth were on their hands and knees, looking under the deck chairs. Katie and Sadie had their (naturally matching) suitcases open and emptied out, desperately searching for Katie's missing toothbrush. Trent was trying, unsuccessfully, to stuff underwear into his guitar case, while Gwen was losing her patience with a jammed zipper on her art portfolio. DJ and Ezekiel were running back and forth to the bus, trying to be helpful by carrying the heavy luggage (DJ more so than the gasping prairie boy). Heather was screeching at one of the interns, demanding that he get off his lazy butt and carry her bags next, while Eva growled to herself in the background, stuffing cast iron dumbbells into a sports duffel. Harold was shouting from a second-story window, imploring people to look for his collector's edition of Issue #253 of _The Astounding Adventures of Captain Spectacular_. Izzy had found a power drill and was, for reasons known only to her, taking down the Playa's flagpole as a souvenir. And Owen was at the buffet table, cramming a roast ham, a cheesecake, and a plateful of Nanaimo bars into his suitcase. Add in the assistants who continued to haul packing crates towards the dock, and Chef barking out orders like the drill sergeant that he was – and the luxury resort was boiling with the chaos of a dynamited beehive.

Chris drank in the mania for a few seconds more, then strolled over to a deck chair, folded his arms against the back, and treated himself to the sight of the undignified position that a certain pampered daddy's girl had gotten herself into. "Lindsay!" he chuckled. "Lose something? Like a train of thought?"

Before Lindsay could process Chris' sarcasm, Beth shouted victoriously and jammed her hand into the air. "Found it!" she said, holding a tube of tanning butter aloft.

"Oh, yay!" The bombshell clapped her hands in relief. "Proper sun block is, like, one of the four main food groups! Now if only I could find my sunglasses ..."

"I'm sure they'll turn up somewhere," smirked Chris, plucking a pair of designer sunglasses out of Lindsay's blue bandana. "So, tell us, what do you girls think about being on Season Two?"

Beth clasped her hands together and bounced on her toes, flashing a braceless grin from ear to ear. "It's just so super sensationalistic!" she shouted, relishing every lisp-free word. "My teeth are finally free from their tin prison, just in time for my new BFF and me to be on a real live movie set! Well, um, a real live abandoned movie set."

"I know!" squealed her blonde friend. "I might get to be in a _movie!_ _Gasp_ … this could be my big breakout! I might even get my own stalker!"

The girls' enthusiasm was contagious. Katie and Sadie ignored their luggage and chimed in, grasping hands in glee. "Did you hear that, Sadie?" Katie giggled to her lifetime friend. "Maybe there'll be talent scouts there! We could wind up on … the _silver_ _screen_! You are _sooo_ pretty enough to be a famous actress! And you did star in the school play in grade two."

Sadie hugged Katie in her pudgy arms. "Well, you are _definitely_ pretty enough to be a screen diva! I bet all the hot guys in Toronto will go full mental for you when they see you arrive!"

"_Awwww_, it's so cute that you _believe_ that!" chirped Lindsay. The confused-puppy look on Katie's face was quickly erased as the girls started bouncing up and down, squealing en masse.

"Looks like some people are enthusiastic for next season," winced Chris, plugging his ears to wait out the sonic onslaught. "I take it you feel good about your chances, then?"

"Lindsay's … gonna do ... _awesome,"_ grinned a sweating Tyler, who had just finished carrying his girlfriend's last chest full of shoes to the bus, and had jogged back to join her. He squirted himself a drink from a Gatorade bottle, mostly missing his mouth, and pushed his hair back from his eyes with a sly grin for the camera. He looped a supportive arm around his sweetheart's shoulders, and her cheeks burned red from the attention. "She's gonna kick butt, and take names, and … and then kick all the butts of all those names! And I'm going to be cheering her on all the way to the finals!"

"Oh, That is _soooo_ sweet," she swooned, her beautiful eyes glistening. She rewarded him with a passionate kiss. "And I'll cheer you on all the way, too."

"Might be a little tough," quipped Chris, "seeing as how Tyler is on Team Uber-Loser, along with Katie and Sadie. They'll be keeping the benches warm for Season Two."

* * *

**(Confession Cam – Going out of business soon.)**

**Katie & Sadie** – "Being an Uber-Loser might not be so bad. I mean, sure, a million dollars would be nice." "Oh, it would be phat city." "But six more weeks together at a swank resort beats selling ice cream back in Twig Harbour!" "You said it – oops! Nothing personal T.H.! Hugs and kisses everyone!" (waves at the camera)

**Beth** – "I am so seriously stoked to stake my spot in this super sweet second season! Check it out people – not a single drop of spittle! Hmmm … maybe I should get laser eye surgery next."

**Courtney** – "I … am not … an _uber-loser_!" (Flips open her phone and speed-dials her lawyer) "C'mon … c'mon … pick up, Richard, you worthless hack!"

**Tyler** – "Man, Chris sure knows how to burst a guy's bubble. It is gonna seriously blow being apart from Lindsay again. But, well, we were apart for a long stretch in Season One, and everything turned out golden, so … nothing to worry about, right?"

* * *

The reminder struck a note of pain on the jock's face, and he cupped Lindsay's cheek in his hand. "It's gonna royally suck being away from you for six weeks, babe."

"Yeah, you're gonna miss all the fun movie challenges," said Beth, her enthusiasm momentarily blunted.

"Ha-ha-haah .. Fun," blurted Chris. "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. Now c'mon, soon-to-be former campers, move move move! The bus rolls in five minutes! If you're not on it, you're hitching a ride with a crazy guy in a logging truck!"

The girls shrieked and scattered off in random directions, just as another of Wawanakwa's most popular girls sauntered towards the camera, her curly red hair bobbing as she whistled casually, with a flagpole draped over her shoulder. Izzy spun her power drill around her finger like a six-shooter, and shoved it into an imaginary holster. "That'll show them cattle rustlers," she growled in a grizzled voice, narrating out loud to nobody in particular. "Nobody draws on Sagebrush Jane and lives to talk about it! KAPOW! Wow, this flag is going to look _soooo_ great mounted over my window. It's like a little piece of Wawanakwa. Like a spirit token, to remind me of the wild, primal spirit that dwells within the island. Maybe the ghost of a raccoon will haunt me in the middle of the night! Sigh, eight weeks of fun ... all coming to an end …_"_ A moment of quiet reflection passed across Izzy's face … and then she pulled a can of gasoline out from behind her back. "Well, nothing left to do now but burn this puppy to the ground!"

"GAAHH!!" Chris gasped, and grabbed the can away from the crazy girl. "Izzy!!!"

"What?" she shrugged. "We're all done with the Playa now, so I figured we'd give it a Viking funeral! Oh, and for future reference, the name is E-Scope now. Write it down!"

"Izzy, E-Scope, Sagebrush Jane … whatever." Chris glared at the redhead in disbelief. "Mental note for Season Two – keep you away from anything combustible. We aren't burning anything down! In fact, the Playa's already rented out for the next group!"

The camera panned over to the hot tub, where Bridgette and Geoff, much as they had for the past two weeks, were making out with a seemingly limitless supply of teenage passion. There had been rumors of a Thursday when they'd simply forgotten to eat while entwined in perpetual lip-lock. And the prospect of another season together seemed to fuel their excitement even further. Bridgette giggled as her boyfriend skillfully caressed her athletic body, sending shivers of pleasure down her spine as she hugged his toned abs closer, thankful for such a cosmically harmonious guy to be with. And the party boy grinned as his surfer babe kissed him tirelessly, looking so smokin' hot in that dark gray wetsuit, making him feel so totally righteous in ways that no other babe ever had before. It didn't matter if he caught an elbow to the eye socket every now and then – he totally loved her. Bridge was babe-tastic, she was his Uber-Babe, if she was a president, she'd be Babe-braham Lincoln, dude! He sunk his lips into another kiss, losing himself in the pleasure that was Bridge …

Until he was smacked on the head by a cane. "Ow!" Geoff shouted. "Hey! Not cool, man!"

Two senior citizens stood impatiently at the edge of the hot tub, wearing loud, baggy swim trunks hiked up to their armpits, and T-shirts that read 'Oshawa Kiwanis Club'. "Enough with the hormones already!" shouted the old man with the cane. He dumped a bottle of epsom salts into the bubbling water, and rubbed his bony hands together in anticipation. "Ahhh … me and my bursitis have been waiting all week for a nice hot dip. Why don't you and your lips get going to your little yellow school bus, Mr. Good Time Cowboy!"

The second old man grinned impishly at Bridgette. "_You_ can stay, though, sweetie. We can start with a bunion massage, and see where things go from there!"

"EWWW," the blonde teens gasped, clutching each other in horror. They bolted from the hot tub, pausing just long enough to grab their suitcases and Bridgette's surfboard. "When we win that million dollars, babe," grinned Geoff, "we can buy our own private hot tub and dig a moat around it!"

The blonde surfer's eyes fluttered seductively. "And stay in it forever," she giggled. "Hey, if we get to the bus first, Cowboy, we can snag the back seat for ourselves."

* * *

**(Confession Cam – A soak in the hot tub sounds nice right about now.)**

**Bridgette** – "Okaaaay, so … I've volunteered at the senior center before, and I have nothing but love and respect for the wisdom of our elders, but just … _yuck_."

**Geoff** – "Bridge and me are gonna go all the way this season, dudes! That million bucks is gonna make for one serious blowout of a surf party! _Shyaa!"_

**Izzy/E-Scope** – (arms folded across her chest, annoyed) "What's Chris got against Vikings, anyway? That's anti-Viking discrimination!"

* * *

"Oh, I love the way you think, babe!" Geoff excitedly chased after his girlfriend with a whoop of enthusiasm, sprinting past the Playa's outdoor buffet table and its abundant spread of delicious food. Well, its once-abundant spread, since most of the buffet's platters had been decimated, now containing nothing more than crumbs. And the source of the onslaught, the massive form of Wawanakwa's greatest natural gas resource, Owen, was folded over the middle of the buffet, his hand shakily reaching for another platter. "Must … (chomp) … finish … (chomp) … bacon ..."

Noah folded his arms, watching with a mix of revulsion and fascination. He still couldn't believe that this farting ball of stupidity had won the first season, while he and his genius intellect had been early exits. "All right, Owen, you win. Against my better judgment, I'm going to ask. Why are you power-gorging through ten pounds of bacon?"

Chomp, munch, munch. "'Cause we're all out of Belgian waffles," Owen answered with a lazy hiccup.

"I knew it had to be something logical," scoffed the cynic, with a roll of his eyes.

"My mom and dad always said to never waste food. Especially food from free all-you-can-eat buffets." The chubby teen chuckled, raised a can of whipped cream to his mouth, and drained it.

The tan-skinned braniac slowly shook his head. "Considering that your arteries must be filled with about eight gallons of popcorn butter, you might want to consider skipping a few buffets, Jabba. You know, if you hadn't given up your hundred thousand dollars, you could have bought yourself all the bacon and whipped cream that your cholesterol-clogged heart desired."

Owen's blubbery belly jiggled with a laugh, the sarcasm completely lost on him. "Yeah, but if I hadn't given up my prize money, then we wouldn't be doing another awesome season together! WOO HOO! It's gonna be so _awesome!"_ He tried to punch the air with his fists, and clutched his side. "Owwie."

"Oh yes, Woo-to-the-Hoo," Noah frowned. "And as much as I'd like to be around for your next scheduled eruption, I'm not actually going to _be_ in the next season, remember?"

"None of you are gonna be in the next season," bellowed a mountain of brawn and fury, "if you don't get your sorry butts in gear!" Noah and Owen flinched as Chef suddenly loomed over their heads, glaring down at them like a disapproving god of death. He gestured towards a clipboard in his hand. "I gotta finish packing up all the equipment on this manifest, and get it moved onto the truck in the next three minutes, or else I fall behind schedule. I strongly dislike falling behind schedule. _Strongly._ My cooking equipment is next," he growled, "and right now, your flabby buttocks are in my way. So are you gonna move 'em ..." - his knuckles cracked - "... or am I gonna move 'em?"

"Can I get a doggie bag for the bacon?" Owen asked, not noticing the pulsing vein on Chef's neck.

Owen's young life was spared when his maniacal girlfriend sprinted by from out of nowhere, wearing a cammo-pattern cap and protective goggles, and carrying a tranquilizer rifle. "C'mon, Big O!" shouted Izzy (E-Scope? I'm not sure either) "We got a few minutes left before the bus leaves! More than enough time!" Without offering an explanation or waiting for a response, she grabbed the stunned lummox by the hand and dragged him off in the direction of the forest.

Chef merely redirected his rage at the poor intern he'd brought along with him. "You there! Quit your slouching, shut your pie hole, and hold your arms out!" The trembling intern's arms snapped out, and Chef quickly loaded them up with steaming trays and serving platters from the long table. The intern's knees started to wobble when the big man stacked a box full of plates and silverware on top of the platters. However, Chef obviously felt that the lanky intern had not yet justified his existence. The last item to be packed was a hibachi grill, a _red-hot, still-burning_ hibachi grill, which Chef simply lifted off the table and set into the intern's outstretched hands. The young man shrieked in third-degree agony, and ran for the waiting semi truck.

"Baby," muttered Chef, as he ripped off the tablecloth and folded up the long buffet table. It was only then that he saw the canvas duffel bag, which had been propping up a broken table leg. "Oh yeah, almost forgot about that," he said nonchalantly.

Noah saw the duffel too, and had a much different reaction. Possibly because the canvas duffel had the words "Canada Post" stenciled on it. "What the … this is _mail!_ You used a bag of our personal mail to prop up a stupid table leg!?!_"_ The stick-thin boy glared up at Chef, who simply snorted with indifference. Noah's protest attracted some attention, and as he rummaged through the mail bag, Harold, Tyler and Lindsay approached curiously. Chris did too, with his cameraman in tow.

"These packages are four weeks old!" shouted Noah. "For crying out loud, this is my early admissions package from McMaster University! I was wondering what happened to this!" He flipped open the thick brown envelope, glancing at the first page. "Please fill out and return within three weeks." His eyes narrowed, burning into Chef's face like twin lasers. "I wish I could hate you to death," he sneered.

Harold saw his name on a package, and gasped. "This is the refill for my allergy medications! Idiots! I needed this, like, two weeks ago! I accidentally ate a fish taco, that had avocado in it, and I've been suffering from an inflamed uvula ever since. Gosh! This mail was practically a medical emergency, Chris!"

"Well, if it was _that_ important, Harry," said Lindsay, "then you should have had it _e-mailed_ to you."

"There are a bunch of videotapes in here," said Tyler, reaching in pull one out. "They all say … 'TDI Video Message From Home'. Hey, this one's from my dad!"

* * *

**(Confession Cam – That's why my magazines haven't been showing up!)**

**Noah** – "You know, it's bad enough that I wasted a summer on a reality show that puts a premium on backstabbing, puking, and farting over genuine intellect. But does Chris think he can just mess with our regular lives, too? Seriously, he probably amuses himself in his spare time with a magnifying glass and an anthill."

**Owen** – "If anyone's mail smells funny, it might be from the jar of gravy my mom sent me."

**Harold** – (taking a blast from a medical inhaler) "Ooooh, yeah … that's the stuff. Finally, I can properly enunciate my words and project from my diaphragm! I have to start preparing myself for next season. Projecting from the diaphragm is very important in the movies, or … as those of us in the know call it ..." - (makes air quotes) - "... 'The Biz'. What?! That's what they call it! I saw it on Wikipedia."

* * *

"Enough blabberin' about your stupid mail!" bellowed Chef, his limited supply of patience at an end. He grabbed the old sack of mail from Noah's hands. "Do I look like a mailman to you?" he growled.

"I'd go with … Disgruntled Postal Worker," Noah deadpanned.

"Don't test me, Poindexter," snarled the large black man. "You'll get this when we get to the studio! Now get your scrawny Nintendo-playin' behind out of here! GO! GO! GO!"

As the teenagers scattered, Chris turned to Chef and gave him an evil, appreciative smile. "Messing with their mail? Nii-i-i-ice! How'd you think of that one?"

"What can I say? Sometimes these things just come to me."

As the sadists enjoyed their handiwork, the blond intern approached Chris, panting and gasping, possibly due to the hundred-pound oversized sack of dirty laundry he had strapped to his back. "I finally … _gasp_ … got your mochaccino ... _gasp_ … Chris," he wheezed. He glanced nervously at the camera, and handed the foamy drink to the host.

Chris was momentarily confused, and then casually dumped the cup in the garbage. "Oh, I was in the mood for that five minutes ago. What did you do, walk to South America for the beans?"

"Here, soldier, make yourself useful." Chef heaved the sack of lost mail into the intern's gut, knocking him flat on his back and painfully blasting all the air from his lungs. "Go toss that in the back of the bus! Stuff it under a spare tire or something. Don't be afraid to really pack it in there. Use a little muscle."

As the intern struggled back to his feet, Chris glanced over at the checkmarks on Chef's clipboard, gauging the progress of the day's move. "Looks like we should get underway on time, provided we don't have any more interruptions ..."

"Chris!" shrieked Courtney. "I see you over there! Don't think you're getting away with this that easy!"

"Still in denial?" Chef whispered.

"Still in denial," groaned Chris.

If Courtney had been dispirited at all from her earlier legal smackdown at the hands of Chris McLean, she didn't show it now. Tracking him like a hunting dog, she hurdled a deck chair, waving her contract and the magnifying glass at him in a threatening gesture. "Think you're pretty cute with your Override Clause and your fine print, don't you! Well, I just got off the phone with my lawyer. That fine print is unconstitutional! We're going to sue you under the Canadian Minimum Font Size Act of 2002!"

"Y'know, everyone here gets it but you," Chris sighed. "You wanna sue me? Fine, go for it. Have a party. My lawyers can make sure that things stretch out for a lo-o-o-ong time. And the courts are all backlogged for at least six months. In the meantime, we start shooting Season Two tomorrow. _Heh-heh_, you do the math."

The hyper-competitive teen's mouth fell open as she did the math. "But you can't do this!" she shouted, her rage building into another crescendo. "You can't make up the rules as you go, like some banana republic dictator! There are laws in this country! I'm not through with you yet! My lawsuit is going to make mincemeat out of you! I'll take this to the Supreme Court if I … EEEEEK!"

Her rage ended in a shrill shriek of surprise as a pair of lean, muscled arms wrapped around her waist from behind. "I knew all I had to do was follow the screaming," smirked Duncan, always eager for a chance to push his girlfriend's buttons. Man, but she was so cute with her eyes scrunched up like that. "Come on, Princess, knock off the legal beagle routine and get your stuff. The bus is waiting out front."

Courtney squirmed free of her delinquent boyfriend's embrace, annoyed both at Duncan's trademark forwardness, and at Chris' smarmy _I-win_ attitude. Sighing with momentary defeat – only momentary! - she balled her fists, and stomped back towards the Playa des Losers to get the last of her bags. Duncan noticed the magnifying glass that she still held in her hand. He plucked it away, and playfully rolled the handle between his fingers. "Now what's this for?" he chuckled, holding it up to stare at her with a large, blue eye. A giant unibrow wiggled at her seductively. "Hey, if you wanted to get a closer look at me, babe, all you had to do was ask."

"Not in the mood, Duncan," she snapped, accelerating her walking pace. "I still have time to re-read my contract on the bus. Maybe there's some jurisprudence I overlooked in my law books ..."

Duncan rolled his eyes; this was all he'd heard about for the past day. Heck, it was all that anyone within earshot had heard about for the past day, and everybody was getting darn sick of it. _Life's not fair, babe, get over it._ But he also knew that his princess wasn't the type of person to simply let things go without a fight. She had the stubbornness of a bulldog – heh, yeah, a bulldog that looked really hot in tight capris. So for right now … he made sure nobody was watching him, then gently placed a supportive hand on her tense shoulder.

"Look, Courtney ... I get it," he said in a soft voice. "Chris screwed you over. He screwed us _all_ over. You want payback, and I can appreciate that. But right now, we gotta play with the hand we've been dealt. I'm still in this thing, and you _know_ that I got serious game. You know that million dollars is as good as in my pocket. And you know I'll share it with you, babe ..." - he slid his arm around her shoulders, and gave her a devilish grin.

Despite herself, Courtney felt her antagonism melting away. "Ohh ... Duncan ..."

"All you have to do is reach in my pocket and get it," he grinned wickedly.

"Ughh!! You _cretin!!"_ She winced in disgust – though not fast enough to hide a fiery blush behind her freckles. A blush that she _knew_ he'd seen. She sighed heavily, and stopped walking. "Look, it's not just about the money, or about Chris and his stupid legal games." She stared intently into his playful blue eyes. "It's about _winning,_ Duncan. I have been a winner in every single challenge that life has ever thrown at me. Winning is more important to me than money, Duncan. Winning is more important that _anything_! Can you understand that?"

Duncan uncoiled his arms from her shoulders. The playfulness disappeared from his cool blue eyes. "Oh, I understand that _perfectly_," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "In fact, I figured that out for myself when I was back there lying on the beach with a twisted ankle. Alone. After you ditched me. With the million dollar briefcase in your hand."

* * *

**(Confession Cam – Er, I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation.)**

**Courtney** – "Okay, I can see how, on the surface, me leaving Duncan behind might look bad, but … well … it was simply an application of situation ethics! I'm sure that he would have done the same thing if our roles had been reversed. Umm … probably." (Tugs at her collar.) "Did somebody leave the heat on in here?"

**Duncan** – "I still can't believe that Princess actually left me hanging out to dry like that. Didn't think she had it in her. Heh, heh. Looks like my bad influence is rubbing off."

* * *

Courtney felt an involuntary gulp squeeze down her throat. "_Ummm_ … now … now, sweetie," she purred, in an abruptly softer tone. She stroked the punk's green-dyed Mohawk with one hand, while tracing the outline of the skull logo on his T-shirt with the other. "You know that we all got a little … irrational yesterday. You know how much you mean to me."

Duncan chuckled, relishing his small victory. If it was fun to get her mad (and boy, was it fun), it was even more fun to get her flustered. "Well I don't know, Princess, I _thought_ I did. Maybe I need a refresher lesson," he grinned. "In _private."_

"Aiiighh! You're _impossible_," growled Courtney, as she pushed the smirking punk away. "Why don't you put those eager paws of yours to good use and get my suitcase ..."

"I'll doo it!" shouted a thickly accent voice. "I'll doo it, eh! I'll doo it!"

Lumbering his way across the Playa des Losers, a red-cheeked, toque-wearing teenager in a green hoodie lurched for Courtney's remaining suitcase, pausing momentarily to catch his breath. "Allow me, eh," said Ezekiel, who looked as worn down as any of the interns. "It would be my honor to help! Umm – not to say that you couldn't carry your sootcase if you wanted to, eh! Just tryin' to be polite! I was _oonly_ offerin' to help in the spirit of friendship – even though I knoo we're not friends and that doesn't mean anything bad 'cause there's no rules that say that everybody's got to be friends but that doon't mean you still can't be friendly to everyone and -"

Courtney stared at him, dumbfounded, as Duncan fought to hold back laughter. DJ and Eva walked up too, carrying the last of their bags for the trip. Eva noticed Ezekiel's hands on Courtney's suitcase, and flinched an eyebrow. That was usually all it took.

"GAAAH! I mean I'll be happy to carry your sootcase even though you can do it yo'orself because I in no way meant to imply that girls couldn't carry their oon sootcases but that sometimes it's just noice for the guy to carry the heavy stuff and – GAAH! But it's noice for girls to carry heavy stuff too! Unless they want the guys to do it! Oh shoot – did you want Duncan to carry your sootcase for you? Oh no, I'm soory, eh! I didn't mean to assume that ..."

"Ezekiel," sighed Courtney, "stop talking. Take the suitcase."

The hapless prairie boy heaved the suitcase off the ground, shot a nervous look over his shoulder towards Eva, and bolted away like a scalded dog. The female bodybuilder shook her head in disgust. "I can't even get mad at the little twerp any more," she growled. "Ever since he's been like this, I can't even enjoy the simple act of giving him a beat-down. It's like kicking a crippled puppy. No satisfaction at all." Her knuckles cracked as she tightened and eased the grip on her sports duffel. "Maybe I should start beating up Tyler again."

* * *

**(Confession Cam – Please don't beat me up. Please?)**

**Eva** – (Snorts.) "Actually, beating up Tyler is like kicking a crippled, three-legged puppy." (She pounds a fist into the wall, splintering a hole in the boards.) "_ARGH!!!_ I can't believe I'm not in this season!"

**Ezekiel** – "Okay, soo I realize that I really messed up in the first season, eh? Soo I made sure to say I'm soory to all the girls here at the Playza des Losers as oofen as I could, but I think I joost started to bug 'em." (Looks nervously at the hole in the wall.) "Ulp … especially Eva, eh? Well, I almoost gave up, but then I figgered I came here to learn about getting along with people, soo I thought real hard about who I could ask fer advice, and I figger that everybody loves DJ, eh."

**DJ** – "Yeah, I've been giving Zeke a few pointers on how to be polite and act proper. Poor guy's tryin' so hard to fit in, but he still doesn't have it quite figured out yet. He just needs to learn to relax and believe in himself – that's what my momma taught me, and she done taught me right! That's why I'm gonna go all the way this year – cause I'm doing it for Momma. A million bucks will be more than enough for her to move back to the island in style." (Waves at the camera and holds back a sniffle.) "I love you, Momma!"

* * *

DJ strolled up casually, set Bunny's traveling cage on the ground, and shared a friendly fist bump with Duncan. "What's up, Duncan? Hey, I been meaning to ask you – you know someplace in town where I could buy a solid gold feeder for Bunny here? I'll be looking to upgrade after I win me that million dollars."

Duncan grinned, always up for some playful smack. "Oh, excuse me? Your million? I didn't realize that Chris was planning a challenge that involved running away and screaming like a schoolgirl. I believe you're talking about my million dollars, pal."

"Correction – you mean _my_ million dollars," interrupted Courtney. "I'm not licked yet!"

DJ patted Duncan on the shoulder sympathetically. "Still in denial, huh?"

"Still in denial," groaned Duncan.

Courtney was about to protest that she was never in denial about _anything,_ when the Playa was rocked by a loud _SNAP,_ and all the lights in the resort building flickered on and off for a few seconds. The teenagers looked around in confusion (DJ jumped into Duncan's arms), and gradually become aware of a growing smell of smoke and ozone. Moments later, Phil, the head production assistant, came staggering out of the front door of the resort, carrying a pair of disconnected spotlights and covered forehead to toes in black, smoking soot. His hair had blasted his skullcap clean off his head, and now stood out in a crackling afro.

"Huh," said Chris, scratching his chin as he and Chef watched from afar. "Could've sworn those lights were on a grounded circuit. Ah, well."

"Hey Chris, what gives!?!" protested a velvety smooth voice. The heavens themselves seemed to pause for breath and a ray of sunlight shone done on the Playa des Losers, as the impossibly perfect silhouette of manhood that was Justin walked out of the main resort building, holding his hands aloft as if surrendering to an invisible robber. "The power just went out on my portable cuticle buffer!" he whined, wiggling his fingers helplessly. "What do you expect me to do, here? I'm fifteen minutes into my afternoon manicure maintenance – I couldn't stop now even if I wanted to. Do you honestly expect me to get on the bus and drive to Toronto, with improperly buffed cuticles?"

As if summoned by hypnosis, Katie and Sadie materialized by Justin's side at the door, each one carrying half of Justin's abundant luggage. "Y-y-you could let me finish your manicure, Justin," gushed Sadie. "I could moisturize your fingers with my kisses ..."

"Just trust your strong, beautiful hands to me, Justin," swooned Katie. "Oooh, they're angelic, but they're so manly too … they're mangelic ..."

"Girls, girls, girls," the male model chuckled playfully, "that's not a bad idea, but … you've already got a job, remember? Hmm? Don't you have some luggage to carry?"

Before the fawning girls could respond, a pair of beefy hands landed on each of their shoulders, and roughly pushed them to the ground. Chef grinned at Justin with a pleasant smile, and effortlessly scooped up his suitcases. "Don't you worry your pretty little face about a thing," gushed the big man.

* * *

**(Confession Cam – Justin? Is here? OH EMM GEE JUSTIN SQUEE!!!)**

**Justin** – (leaning back with his arms behind his gorgeous, perfect hair) "Season One was fun and all, and my publicist told me that being on TDI has sent my Q-Rating through the roof. Can you say glossy cover photo shoot?" (He rubs his fingers together.) "Ka-_ching_ … very nice. But with the prize this season being a million bucks – baby, that's a lot of manicures. So it's time to turn my game up a notch. And if I can wrap Chef around my little finger like that without even trying – ah-heh, heh – what chance does anyone else on this show have?" (Admires his perfect cuticles.) "Ahhh … very nice."

* * *

Another camper ran out of the Playa, frowning as he held a laptop in his arms protectively. "Hey, what's the deal with the power, guys?" said Cody, quickly sidestepping the electrified Phil. "I think we lost our Internet connection. And I wasn't finished downloading all my Spacebook messages!"

"Don't worry about your gosh darn stupid messages," bellowed Chef, instantly snapping back into drill sergeant mode. "You'll have plenty of time to check them out with your other loser friends when we get to the film lot. Get in the bus."

"But there's no wi-fi in the bus, and I gotta ..."

Chef's eyes narrowed into a pair of dangerous slits. "Get. In. The Bus."

"But _Chef,"_ Cody pleaded, popping open his laptop with a gap-toothed grin. "Check this action out!"

Chef opened his mouth to shout one more time, then stopped, genuinely astonished at the website Cody was showing him. Colorful animated hearts and doe-eyed cupids danced around the borders of , which seemed to be nothing more than a wallpaper of obsessively arranged Cody photos and endless messages, fiction, and poetry from squealing fangirls pleading their everlasting and undying love for the diminutive ladies' man. The large cook flinched a mildly disturbed eyebrow. "How many of these fans of yours are sixteen years old?"

Cody smirked, and shot a pair of pistol-fingers at Chef. "Eventually? All of 'em!"

Chef seized Cody by the scruff of his collar and tossed him towards the bus, barely missing Izzy (no, wait, E-Scope) as she merrily ran past, pulling on the handle of a little red wagon. A little red wagon with a six hundred pound grizzly bear in it, sleeping peacefully away, with a tranquilizer dart jutting out from his hindquarters. Owen crawled behind her on his hands and knees, gasping and sweating and pausing for breath. Then he seized up and clutched at his chest. "Oooh! Tingly!" he giggled. "Oh … wait … Thunder on the mountain!" A sickening gurgle emanated from Owen's midsection, followed by a moist blast of flatulence that killed a nearby potted plant. He sighed in relief, got to his feet, and ran after his girlfriend once more.

Chris just watched the spectacle pass by, and slowly shook his head. Chef snorted as he watched the redheaded psycho try to pull the drugged grizzly on top of the bus. "Girl's crazier than a sack of weasels," he grumbled.

"That she is," smiled Chris, who had suddenly perked up. "And the fans love her. But as good as Crazy and Disgusting are for the show's ratings, there's something else that the unwashed masses drink up like nobody's business … da-RAMA."

"Would you watch where you're _going_?" snarled a loud, acidic voice. "I swear, if there's so much as a single scuff mark on my Luis Vuitton bags, I am going to make you curse the trailer park you were born in!"

The most despised camper in Wawanakwa stormed down the walkway to the bus, with seething hatred in her cold gray eyes, and in every brisk step she took in her high-heeled wedges. She adjusted the hideous mullet-wig that protected her shaven scalp, drained the last of her imported Norwegian glacier water, and glared around at the wilderness one last time, wishing she could set the island ablaze with her glare. "I hate this place … so … much," hissed Heather, swatting away an irritating mosquito. "Let's just get on the stupid bus and leave this tick-infested, one-star, redneck hovel, _forever."_ She planted her fists on her hips and turned to growl at the blond intern, who was struggling to keep up with her while balancing six heavy designer bags in his arms. "Sometime today, Speedy Gonzales. Could you _be_ any _slower?!?"_

"Explain to me again ..." panted the blond intern, "... why nobody else needed their bags carried for them?"

Heather threw her empty water bottle at the intern, bouncing it off his head. "Here's an idea: instead, why don't I explain to you how the _help_ doesn't talk back when you give them instructions?"

"Shoot, the reason nobody carried _her_ bags," bellowed a loud voice, "is 'cause nobody can stand to be within ten feet of that whiny, finger-snappin', spoiled-rotten prissy little Bratz doll!"

Her shoulders shuddered in revulsion; this was just what she needed to make her day a perfect ten on the crap-o-meter. LeShawna, Gwen, and Trent were next to the second-hand school bus with the last of their luggage, shooting death-stares at Heather that the demon queen eagerly returned. Heather sneered, unimpressed by the united front being put up by the trio of losers.

"It's uncanny," snarled Gwen, her face looking even paler than usual. "Just when I was thinking of how much another season of Chris' sadistic torture is going to suck, you show up, and remind me that things can always get worse."

Heather folded her arms and huffed. "Every day you wake up and look in the _mirror_ is a reminder that things can always get worse."

"I can't believe I have to put up with you and your dead-raccoon hairdo for another six weeks."

"Well, don't worry, Gwennie. You'll probably get your pasty goth butt voted off in six _days."_

Trent placed a reassuring hand on Gwen's shoulder, partly for support, and partly to keep his girlfriend from lunging for Heather's throat. "You might want to worry more about your own chances, Heather," he pointed out. "You're not exactly leaving the island on good terms with anybody, and nobody's going to be fooled by your tricks next season. You've pretty much got a target on you, right now."

Heather's expression didn't change, but she winced to herself internally. The ugly truth was that Trent was somewhat right – these losers were going to hold a grudge against her, and try to gang up on her, and be totally obsessed with their stupid little revenge fantasies. Pffft, what_-ever._ She had crushed more people on the way to the top of the popularity pyramid than she could be bothered to remember, and two mopey Emos and their Gangsta Queen sidekick were just more speed bumps to be driven over. "So, you're putting a target on me, are you? Like I'm worried about you, Trent. What are you going to do, make me lose by playing your little coffee shop angst tunes until I fall asleep?"

"Un-be_-lievable,"_ scowled LeShawna, propping her hands on her ample hips. "You are one piece of work, Queenie. After all that's happened, you would _think_ you'd learn a little humility."

"You would _think_ you'd learn to keep your big mouth shut when nobody's talking to you!"

"You would _think_ you'd learn that it's never a good idea to get Shawny mad at you."

Heather smirked. "_Especially_ if you happen to be a pork roast."

Ebony fingers clenched tightly into a pair of fists. "You best watch yourself there, Kojak," LeShawna hissed through her teeth. "I got my eyes on you this season!"

"At least until the dessert cart comes around, Queen LaBeefa!"

"OOOOH, NO YOU DI'INT!" howled LeShawna, her eyes ablaze with fury. She lunged at Heather like a jungle cat, barely restrained by Gwen and Trent as she stretched her hands out for the rich girl's slender neck. "That was your last strike, Chicken Legs, and now it is ON!! It is ON like DONKEY KONG!! I am gonna knock the _taste_ right outta yo' mouth!"

"ENOUGH!" shouted Chef, who had managed to work his way between the two warring girls, and separate them with his burly tree-trunk arms. There were moans of disappointment, several from the girls, who had eagerly anticipated seeing Heather get her lunch handed to her, and several from the guys, who had eagerly anticipated seeing a wicked awesome cat fight. Chef jabbed a finger at each of their chests, like a scornful referee. "As much as I would love to watch you two wail on each other for an hour or so, we don't have time for it! So save the hate for later, ladies! Let's get moving!"

Heather and LeShawna seethed at each other, a silent vow of eternal hatred burning in their eyes. Then with a huff, LeShawna gave Heather the "talk to the hand" treatment, and Heather turned away with her nose in the air.

"We're burning daylight, people," shouted Chris, checking his wristwatch. "It is time to get this party on the road! Big city, here we come!"

A few cheers rang up from the campers, while most drug themselves aboard the rattletrap yellow bus as if boarding a prison van. Chris relished their agony for a moment, then paused to survey his miniature fleet with all the humility of modern-day Napoleon. The Playa Des Losers had been totally cleared out. All of the television equipment had been loaded up on the boat and the truck, and all the campers were present and accounted for. Some were cramming the rest of their belongings into the cargo compartments of the bus, while others relaxed as best they could in the patched-up seats, shaking and shuddering with each occasional backfire from the smoky diesel engine. Too bad for them, snickered Chris. He'd be riding to the film lot in the back of his private luxury RV, watching the Jays on satellite and gnoshing on snacks from the on-board pizza oven.

Chef sat down behind the wheel, grinding his teeth at prospect of listening to the whining of a busload of teenage maggots. And sure enough, the shouting started before he could put his hand on the parking brake.

"Could you two _puh-leeze_ give us a break from watching you suck face for five minutes?!"

"Oh, boy, when I get to Teranna, I'm takin' a picture of that big tower fer Mum 'n' Dad, eh!"

"No, Izzy, I do _not_ want to play Eye Spy – OW! And I don't want to play Punch Buggy, either!"

"There's gum on the seat! And there's a spider in the gum! And there's gum on the spider! _Ewwwww!"_

"HEY!" shouted Chef, turning around to glare at his annoying passengers. He held up an old 8-track cartridge, clearly labeled _Country Polka Jamboree_. "Don't make me use this," he growled. The bus was as silent as a funeral parlor three seconds later.

Chris motioned for his cameraman to zoom in on his made-for-TV cheekbones. "And so, it is with heavy hearts that we bid a fond farewell to Total Drama Island," he said, with almost-sincere reverence. "We've had a chance to talk with the competitors, and hear their hopes and dreams for the second season – well, as least the ones we could air without getting the Censor Board on our cases. But now the time for talk is over. Now is the time – for action! For … TOTAL! DRAMA! ACTION! ..."

… and the bus's engine heaved and coughed with massive backfire that would have made Owen proud. The air filled with a dark, rolling smoke that blotted out the camera picture. Everyone coughed and rubbed their eyes, and waved their arms frantically to disperse the sweet-smelling smoke. Worse still, three of Chris' hairs had been knocked out of place.

Chris waved his arms in outrage. "Darn it! That was my big dramatic fade-out shot! PHIL! See what's wrong with this hunk of junk."

Chris' head production assistant – who was still recovering from electrical shock – staggered over to the bus and yanked the hood open, muttering curses under his breath. Idly tapping his chin with a wrench as he glanced at the chugging engine and its many parts, he ran his fingers over a few of the hoses, then reached in to tighten a fitting …

Which sent a blistering hot jet of oil and steam blasting into his face.

He howled out a string of curses that made even Lindsay blush, and then hurled his wrench to the ground in a fit of rage. "THAT'S IT! That is IT! I have HAD ENOUGH!"

Phil the assistant marched up to the surprised host, and jabbed his finger half an inch from his nose. "I have had enough of you, McLean! I'm not putting up with another six weeks of your prima donna crap and your obsolete equipment and your dollar-an-hour hazard pay! I QUIT!"

"I quit too!" shouted another assistant, whose right arm was in a cast. "Me too!" shouted another, who pointed a threatening crutch at Chris. Before Chris McLean could do anything, the momentum grew until all of the production assistants from Local 542 had told him off, and swore that none of them would ever work for him again. They stormed away, leaving the vehicles idling and unmanned.

Chris' eyes widened in moment of panic. He glanced at Chef, who merely shrugged his shoulders as a reply. "I already do more than enough jobs on this show," he said.

"Wait – this is not a problem. This is _not_ a problem," The megalomaniac smirked, his characteristic cockiness returning. "I've still got my interns, and they're not in the union. _Ha_! Interns, front and center!"

Chris' cockiness started to fade away again, when one lone intern hobbled up to the bus.

The host waited a few more seconds, glanced left and right, but there was still only one intern standing in front of him, the blond one. "Umm … where are all the other interns, dude?"

"Umm … let's see," said the blond intern, nervously glancing at the camera. He started ticking off on his bandaged fingers. "Shark bite, third-degree burns, carnivore beaver attack, broken ribs, food poisoning, decompression sickness, spotted yellow fever … and I think Vernon has post-traumatic stress disorder."

"You mean you're it? Just you, umm … mochaccino guy ..." - Chris snapped his fingers, scanning his memory - "... Bill, Billy, Billy Bob? William? Williamson, Williamsburg, Williamsing ..."

"It's Marcus," sighed the intern.

"Oh wait, right … Marcus." Chris folded his hands calmly, with a suggestion of malice in his smile. "Heh-heh. Forgot for a moment there, almost didn't recognize you. Well, _you're_ certainly not going anywhere, are you?"

Marcus winced and eased away from the camera, while Chris leaned back against the bus, cradling his chin in thought. "Quite the little dilemma we seem to find ourselves in here, eh Chef?"

"Whaddaya mean, 'we'?" Chef snorted, leaning against the steering wheel with a nasty smirk. "I tried to warn ya, you were pushing them too hard. Although even I didn't think they'd do anything all spontaneous like that."

A light went off in Chris' eyes.

_Spontaneous._ Pure genius. _Spontaneous!_ _I'm glad I thought of it._

He climbed the narrow steps inside the bus, hands clasped smugly behind his back, and turned to face the confused, questioning faces of the twenty-two teenagers. He handed the video camera to Chef – the cameraman had walked off with the production assistants – motioned for him to start filming, and grinned with those laser-whitened teeth.

"Alright campers, we've had a little excitement here, but what else would you expect from a show called Total _Drama_ Island?" He laughed at his own joke, as the teens exchanged confused glances, unsure of what was about to happen.

"Of course, since we're about to start the second season, and the name of the show is changing to Total Drama Action, it doesn't seem appropriate to refer to you as 'campers' anymore. After all, we're headed to a film lot, and our challenges are going to be based on movies and movie themes. So, Lindsay, Beth, Owen, Justin ..." - the camera did a close-up on each teenager as Chris named them - "... Gwen, Trent, LeShawna, Izzy ..."

"E-Scope!"

"E-Scope," groaned Chris, "Geoff, Bridgette, DJ, Duncan, Heather, and Harold … you fourteen competitors will henceforce be referred to in Season Two as … _castmates!"_

Owen, Beth, and Lindsay giggled with glee. Heather rolled her eyes and groaned.

Chris continued. "The rest of you ... Ezekiel, Eva, Noah, Katie, Sadie, Cody, Tyler …" - he turned to deliver a smile - "... and Courtney ..."

"I know, I know, will be known as the 'Uber-Losers'," pouted Courtney, folding her arms in a huff.

"... will _also_ be taking part in Season Two ..."

The bus exploded with shouts of surprise. Shrieks of joy erupted along with howls of protest and charges of unfairness. Katie and Sadie hugged and bounced and squealed like teakettles. LeShawna shouted that Chris had to be _tripping._ Tyler grabbed Lindsay in a massive hug, while Gwen, Justin and Duncan protested over the abrupt change in the rules. Noah's cynicism dipped enough for him to pull away from his Sudoku book, and Courtney beamed with triumph, holding her contract aloft like a victory torch.

"... as … _interns!"_

Complete. Silence.

Chris just lived for moments like this. He reached over to a shell-shocked Courtney, and gently tugged the contract from her hand. "Override Clause … Spontaneous Amendment," he beamed. "Gotta _love_ that fine print."

* * *

Continued in Chapter Two

* * *


	2. Hooray for Hoserwood

**A/N** – This story is a work of fan fiction. The characters of Total Drama Action are the property of Cake Studios, Fresh TV, and the Teletoon television network, and I cannot stress enough that I am not making a plumb nickel off this story. This alternate version of Total Drama Action may include random elements and ideas from the TV show, but this story will deviate completely from the official version.

Thanks for the reviews, guys! Here at CoyoteLoon Airlines, we know that you have many options available to you for your fan fiction needs. Thank you for choosing Lights Drama Action, and have a pleasant flight. Ahem … take it away, Chris!

**Chris McLean **– Last time, on Lights, Drama, Action … Time waits for no man. And neither does the bus! Ha-hah! After scrambling like crazy to get ready for the trip to the big city, the soon-to-be-ex-campers took a few moments to share their hopes, their dreams … and their legal threats. Seriously, Courtney ... switch to decaf. While everyone was excited, not _everything_ was peaches and cream. Tyler stressed about missing Lindsay, Noah stressed about the Playa's poor mail service, and Heather and LeShawna … were just _stressed._ And just like any road trip, there were a _few_ problems getting out of the gate. Like, um, an unfortunate souring of labor relations. The show's entire production crew walked off the job, leaving one measly intern. But as the old saying goes, necessity is the mother of invention – and what I just invented was a whole new way to torture campers! Or should I say … "interns"! Sur_-prise!_ Will the show go off as planned without a crew? What new twists do we have in store for Season Two? And will Ezekiel be able to drive a stick shift? These answers and more are coming up on ...

* * *

**LIGHTS, DRAMA, ACTION!**

A "Total Drama Island" Fanfic by CoyoteLoon

**Chapter Two** – Hooray for Hoserwood

* * *

After hours spent winding down from the forested wilderness of Northern Ontario, and yet more hours spent fighting through the concrete wilderness of the Greater Toronto freeway system, the TDA convoy pulled off of Highway 401 and rumbled towards a barren, half-deserted industrial park. Faces pressed up against the windows of the rusted yellow school bus, eagerly expecting to see bright lights, high-end shopping, famous landmarks, and hordes of adoring fans, but to their collective disappointment, all there was to see in this part of the city's outskirts was block after block of featureless beige warehouses and cookie-cutter strip malls. Some of the impatient teens began to wonder aloud that if there _was_ a movie lot in here somewhere, it sure was well-hidden.

"You sure you know where you're going?" Duncan shouted at the bus driver, with a sarcastic smirk.

In reply, the bus aggressively took a sharp left-hand turn and tilted up on two wheels, throwing everybody out of the seats and screaming for their lives. Bodies landed on top of bodies as the bus smashed through a security gate, tires squealing under the strain, before coming to a sudden stop and flopping back on all four wheels with a heavy, spine-jolting _whomp_.

With one last backfire, the engine stopped, and the bus driver turned around, glaring menacingly under her unibrow. "Well you tell me, Funny Guy," growled Eva, "does this look like a movie lot to you?!"

Adjusting the bill of her ball cap – which was stenciled with the word INTERN – the disgruntled teen bodybuilder flung the door open and told everyone to get out, _now._ Eager to escape Eva's atomic temper, the fourteen castmates spilled out of the old bus and moaned with a mixture of relief and agony, their backs popping and necks cracking after a long stretch of sitting down.

E-Scope yawned, got down on all fours, and arched her back, stretching out like a cat. "I told you guys it would have been more comfortable on the roof! There was all kinds of room up there, after the bear got away."

Gwen grimaced and blinked her eyes in the bright afternoon sun, rubbing the spots away as she took a quick glance around at her new surroundings. All she saw was deserted buildings. "Leave it to Chris to haul us halfway across Ontario to someplace even more crap-tacular than that island," she frowned.

"Shoot, hon," laughed LeShawna, inhaling the hazy urban air with gusto, "this dump ain't _nothin'_ compared to my old 'hood. As long as there ain't any fool bears running around, I don't have a problem."

Justin quickly checked his hair in the bus' side mirror, and looked around with a disappointed sulk. "I don't understand … where's the spotlights? Where's the photographers?"

"Where's the food?!?" shouted Owen, pulling his hair. "I mean, c'mon, we drove past like six McDonald's, two Taco Bells, and a Swiss Chalet, and we didn't even slow _down!_ That was just _cruel!"_

"Oh, _right_," huffed Heather, poking Owen in his generous belly. "Because filling this fart factory with burritos would have made the trip _so_ much more enjoyable."

"Hey, never mind all that stuff dudes …" said Geoff, scratching his head. "Like, where's the truck? Wasn't it right behind …."

He was interrupted by a frantic blast from a semi truck horn. The TDA eighteen-wheeler was indeed right behind them, barreling through the busted security gate and coming on at high speed, filling the air with a warbling screech of its brakes – a screech that was almost louder than DJ's scream of panic. Everyone jumped out of the way in time to watch the fishtailing semi slide roughly into the back of the school bus, propelling it a good twenty feet forward as if it had been an empty tin can. Angry faces glared up at the trio in the cab of the truck – Cody, Courtney, and Ezekiel, who was grinning sheepishly behind the wheel.

"Oooh! Soory about that!" he shouted out the window, his trademark toque replaced with an "Intern" trucker's cap. "Ummm … not quite like drivin' the tractor back home, eh?"

Courtney pried her fingers away from a dashboard death-grip, and started smacking the prairie boy on the shoulder. While Cody tried to keep her from killing him, everybody's attention was diverted away by the sound of a small, honking horn.

A long, white tram cart zipped around one of the deserted buildings with an electric whine. Chris McLean, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning behind his sunglasses, tooted the horn enthusiastically and waved at the group, just in case everyone's attention wasn't already on him. Sitting in the first tram car behind Chris was Tyler, along with an exhausted-looking Noah, Katie, Sadie, and Marcus, all wearing ball caps, and Chef, who was his usual charming, frowning self. Tyler was holding a video camera, fumbling with the zoom lens and trying to keep Chris in-picture as he barked on-the-fly shooting instructions. The electric tram wove its way up to the school bus, and Chris hopped out, greeting his victims with an ominous chuckle.

Gwen did a double-take, then barely got her pale hand to her mouth in time to block a snort of laughter. "Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me. Your mom let you out of the house looking like that?"

Along with the Hollywood sunglasses, Chris was sporting an over-the-top bright red cravat and matching beret, and cradling a director's crop in his left arm. "'Bout time you slowpokes showed up," he taunted. "I was starting to think we were gonna have to send the dogs out for ya! Ha-hah! Me and my custom RV have already been here for over an hour. Heck, my trusty interns have already unloaded the Boat of Losers!"

Behind him, Noah rolled his eyes and held up a pair of bandaged hands. "Manual labor – _also_, not my forte."

"We got beat here by a _boat?!"_ growled Eva. "How'd that happen?!"

"Because we had to stop every fifteen minutes so the redneck could take a bathroom break," a disheveled Courtney growled back.

"Oh, that is not true! Yer just tellin' stories, now!" protested Ezekiel.

She folded her arms and glared. "You stopped five minutes after we left the resort!"

"I had to go reelly reelly bad! I had a reelly big coffee fer breakfast, an' my back teeth were floatin', eh!"

Courtney had another scathing criticism ready to deliver, until she was distracted by an all-too-familiar snickering behind her back. Her icy stare turned around to fix on Duncan, who was failing miserably to hold in his laughter at the sight of his prim-and-proper princess wearing a trucker's cap. "Don't. Say. Anything," she hissed.

"I … I didn't … PFFFFFT … say a … NGGHHH ... w-word," the punk guffawed, fighting for breath. He looked like he was having a stroke.

"Alright, you slackers," yelled Chef, striding towards his three latest minions, "now that you finally showed up with the darn truck, you can start unloading it! Equipment Warehouse is two blocks east of here. I want you there five minutes ago! We've still got a ton of cameras and electronics to set up by tonight! Now MOVE!" Zeke and Cody scrambled back to move the truck, while Chef practically pushed Katie and Sadie out of the electric tram, ignoring their pleas of tired feet. With Chef barking orders to run behind the truck, double-time, the sorry band of interns sprinted for the unloading dock, choking on a blast of diesel exhaust from the semi.

"Bye, Intern Taylor!" shouted Lindsay, waving enthusiastically as her boyfriend loped away. "Have fun doing internal stuff!"

"Interns! Oh, man," laughed Chris, wiping a tear from his eye, "that's not gonna get old anytime soon. All right, people, we're on a schedule here! Everybody onto the tram! Please keep your arms and hands inside the car at all times … _ha-hah_!" Nobody else laughed at Chris' corny joke as they climbed aboard the studio tram. Gwen and Trent slid in close to each other, though not as close as Geoff and Bridgette, who quickly proceeded to start making out. LeShawna sat behind Gwen, and Harold quickly plopped down next to her, grinning his most charming, wheezing grin … which she replied to with _the look_. Harold gulped, and quickly scooted over to the other side of the seat. Beth and Lindsay, easily the most eager of the competitors, sat right behind Chris with a squeal of glee, while Duncan, DJ, and Justin relaxed in the back, just in front of Owen and E-Scope. Heather had the middle car to herself, sulking in solitude as she checked her wig. Once she had picked a seat, the others had avoided her as if she was a plague carrier.

Chris adjusted his beret, and checked the mounted auto-camera on the frame of his tram car. "Alright everybody, it's time to welcome you, and our viewers, to the set of … Total! Drama! ACTION!" With a mild jolt, the tram sped away from the old school bus, zipped past a short row of storage buildings, and hung a left turn …

And a few jaws dropped, as they suddenly found themselves driving down the dusty main street of an Old Wild West town. While the teenagers gazed, Chris continued his narration. "This season's greatest reality show is going to take place here, outside of Toronto, on an abandoned film lot!" Another turn, and suddenly they were back in the 1930's, on a road with stylish Model A's parked in front of art deco brownstone houses and cardboard skyscrapers. A few hundred yards later, they rolled passed grand white columns and the glory that was Ancient Rome. "For the next six weeks, our fourteen castmates will compete in challenges based on the movies, for a shot at winning … one … million … DOLLAHS! Umm … as soon as we get it out of the shark."

Bridgette pulled her lips away from Geoff and _ooooed_ as the tram rolled past a very convincing beach, complete with palm trees and dugout canoes. Next came a fog-shrouded graveyard choked with overgrown swamp vines, which got DJ's teeth chattering like a pair of castanets. Harold gasped and almost fell out of the tram as they passed a replica of a rocket ship, sitting on a rust-colored, cratered replica of an alien planet. With every turn of the studio tram, it seemed, the castmates were transported to a different and fantastic world.

Duncan slouched in his seat, unimpressed by a mockup facade of a pirate ship. "So are you ever gonna get around to telling us how this works, or are you just gonna play tour guide for the rest of the day?"

Chris frowned back at the delinquent. "As I was _about_ to explain," he sneered, "just like last season, we'll split you up into two teams. The team that loses a challenge will have to endure the nail-biting drama of our Awards Ceremony ..."

The tram rolled past an extravagantly decorated amphitheater, with wooden bleachers surrounding a stage flanked by a massive pair of golden statues. Each statue was bathed in brilliant floodlights, making it impossible _not_ to notice that they were, in fact, giant grinning replicas of Chris McLean himself. It was everything Gwen could do to keep from throwing up.

"... and just like last season, the losers will cast their votes and pick somebody to get the boot! After the votes are tallied, all but one lucky castmate will receive ..." - he held up a small golden statuette of himself - "... a Gilded Chris Award, or as I like to call it, a 'Chrissy'. Handsome little devil, isn't he?"

"Oh, sweet Lord have mercy," groaned LeShawna, smacking her palm to her forehead.

"Whoever does not receive a Chrissy will take the dreaded Walk of Shame to … the Lame-O-Sine!" Right on cue, a cloud of choking exhaust rolled through the tram. While the castmates coughed violently, the tram rolled by a stretch limousine, all dusty black with generous patches of rust, with a garish set of cattle horns bolted onto the hood.

Trent frowned as he watched the limo shudder, wondering if it would shake itself to pieces once it was put into gear. "Where the heck do you buy your cars, Chris? I mean, just one of those big statues would probably pay for a brand new semi truck, a new bus, and a new limo that didn't burn more oil than it did gas!"

"Perhaps," answered Chris, "but then, I would only have _one_ giant Golden Me. And that would throw off the whole symmetry vibe thing I got going here. Comprende?" Trent just sighed and folded his arms, with a disapproving frown.

The tram continued around another turn, past a row of huge, numbered studio buildings with rounded roofs. "Moving on, then. Now, we don't have an outhouse for you to spill your guts in, this season," said Chris, pointing towards a large silver trailer on the other side of the roadway. "Instead, you'll be using our Dressing Room Confessional! If you've got something to say to the world, that's the place to do it! "

* * *

**(Dressing Room Cam – Yes! My big opening scene!)**

**Gwen** – (glancing around) – "Well, I suppose it beats baring my soul in an old wooden crap shack that smells like Owen's boxer shorts. Although I'm kind of surprised that there's not any more Chris statues in here. God, that man's ego is so massive, it affects the _tides."_

**Bridgette** – (horrified) – "Did you see how much pollution that limo was pouring into the air? Why couldn't Chris have sprung for a hybrid limo?"

**Trent** – "It's actually kind of cool being on a movie lot. I think I even recognized a couple of the sets we rolled past on the way here. Like, that courthouse was from that romantic comedy, _Subpoena My Heart_. And the Old West set was used for _Cowboys vs Ninjas_! Yeah … wow … uh … now that I think about it, both those movies really, really stunk."

**E-Scope** – (bouncing excitedly) "Omigosh, that's the set where they shot _Cowboys vs. Ninjas_! That's like, my sixteenth favorite movie of all time! It's based on a true story, you know. In fact, my great-great-great-aunt Agatha was a cowgirl in the Old West. Ninjas were always attacking their ranch." (She pantomimes quick-drawing a revolver) "Alright, you no good dirty ninja, this town ain't big enough for the two of us! Ka-POW! Ka-POW! ZING! SLICE! SLASH! ACCCK! CHOKE!" (Gurgles, rolls her eyes back, and drops to the floor.)

**Beth** – "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! I've dreamed all my life of winning a Chrissy! Even though I just found out it existed five minutes ago! Hollywood, I'm ready for my close-up!"

**Harold** – "Dressing Room? Does this mean we have to get dressed in here? Because I can't be held responsible for what might happen if my many lady fans were to see me in all of my naked splendor. They might, like, rush the studio gates and riot and stuff. We should probably call the Toronto police department, and tell them to have the riot squad on standby."

* * *

"And now we come to the end of our little studio tour," chirped Chris, as the electric tram pulled up to a pair of old, dilapidated trailers sitting on a scrubby patch of open lot. The ground was barren, save for a pile of luggage that had been dropped off ahead of time. "Everybody out! Welcome to your new home for the next six weeks! If you're lucky, that is – ha_-_hah!" The castmates let out a collective moan (which was music to Chris' ears), climbed out of the tram cars (E-Scope leaped out with a double somersault), and gazed at the trailer-park shacks that they would crash in for the next forty-two days. One of them was jacked up and mounted on cinder blocks. The other was covered in ugly patches of mildewed plywood and body spackle.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," growled Heather, shriveling her nose in disgust at the tattered orange awnings that hung over the closest trailer's door. "I am _not_ staying in one of these white trash condos!"

Gwen snapped out of her own trance of revulsion, and smirked at her hated rival's reaction. "Oh, I dunno," she said, "you've already got the whole mullet look working for you. All you need is a tattoo and a tube top, and you'll be right at home."

Geoff ignored the verbally warring girls, and forced a smile, trying to lift the group's mood. "Well … maybe it won't be so bad, dudes. My dad used to take us on road trips with a trailer, and it was kinda fun! Like camping on wheels! And at least there's electricity."

"Yeah? What about running water?" asked a skeptical DJ. "Either of those things got a bathroom?"

Chris simply smiled, and gestured over his shoulder to a pair of blue porta-potties.

"Oh, so _there's_ the confession can," said Lindsay, with a sense of relief. "But … which one has the camera in it?"

Ignoring Lindsay's latest attack of blondeness, Chris clapped his hands together to get everyone's attention. "Well folks, you've already had yourselves a long day, so grab your stuff and get settled into your new digs. There's four bunk beds in each trailer – girls in that trailer, boys in the other. Unpack your toothbrushes, and then report to the Commissary building in half an hour, for chow, and the announcement of the teams for this season!" Chris pulled a megaphone out from under his seat, and shouted into it as loud as he could. "Let's get a move-on, people! Time's a-wasting!" Chuckling at fourteen teenagers with their hands clasped painfully over their ears, he popped the tram back into gear, and drove away.

The guys hauled their luggage into the boys' trailer and made their choice of beds, which turned out to be pretty straightforward. Owen got his own bed – nobody wanted to sleep within his "blast radius" – and there was one disagreement between Geoff and DJ, which was settled with rock-paper-scissors. The girls, however, were engaged in a heated argument that was as complicated and convoluted as a session of parliament. None of them wanted to share a bunk with Heather, but on top of that, none of them even wanted to be on the same side of the _trailer_ as Heather. And the former brunette insisted that she needed to sleep away from the door, to protect her speaking voice from cold drafts. But nobody else wanted her walking past their beds, in case she tried to cause trouble in the middle of the night. So while Owen eagerly led the guys (who didn't quite share the big guy's lip-smacking enthusiasm) to the commissary, the girls were negotiating sleeping positions while Heather sat on her suitcase, and fumed.

* * *

**(Dressing Room Cam – Well, she sure can't sleep in here.)**

**Heather** – (indignant) – "I'm stuck in a trailer full of six-year-old brats. _Hmmph!_ You think I care what they think about me? So what if they don't want to split a bunk? More shoe space for _me_, losers."

**LeShawna** – (glaring at the mirror) – "You're just wasting your time unpacking, Miss Thang. First time you pull one of your little stunts, you and your scrawny little booty are gonna be dis_-missed._ Count on it."

**Lindsay** – (clasping her hands in glee) – "Oh, yay, the Confession Cam has a makeup mirror in it now! That's going to save me, like, _sooo_ much time in the morning. Um … I think something's wrong with this toilet, though."

**Justin** – (applying some touch-up to his nose) – "All right … just a little more … ahhh, perfect." (Admires himself in the mirror.) "Hell-ooo, Mr. Irresistible. Now to see how Chris splits the teams up, so I can select lucky victim Number One. Heh, heh, _heh-heh_."

* * *

Bridgette wasn't sure what she expected a commissary to look like, but she did recognize a run-down 50's-style diner when she saw one, and since that's where the gagging sounds were coming from, she felt it was pretty reasonable to assume that's where she would find Chef and his excuse for cooking. Her fears were confirmed when a slight shift in the wind filled her unprepared nostrils with a aroma resembling a cross between a hog rendering plant, and two-week-old-mayonnaise. Beth and Lindsay joined her, scrunching up their noses in disgust. "Maybe I'll just have the soup tonight," the surfer said with a weak chuckle, already clutching her tummy protectively.

"I think that _is_ the soup," gulped Beth, as she opened the commissary door with a frown. Their new eating arrangements were certainly unspectacular, certainly less so than the lodge-style dining hall back on the island. The room looked like a typical cafeteria, decorated in tarnished stainless steel, not that different from what any of them would expect to see in a hospital or a high school. Grouped at several large picnic-style tables, all of the competitors were already dining on a medley of mushes and pastes that drew from all the colors of the rainbow, from blood-clot red to puke green to fuzzy, overripe blue.

Everyone poked at their food cautiously, with the obvious exception of Owen, who was polishing away the better part of an entire meatloaf with gusto. "Nothing like a little meat 'n' potatoes to put some hair on your chest!" he shouted, unintentionally spraying Harold with meat crumbs. He reached across the table and grabbed a big bowl of grayish mashed potatoes, and another bowl filled with thick, dark brown liquid.

"Dude, that's not gravy," winced DJ. "I … I think it's applesauce."

"Even better!" grinned the big guy, patting his belly. "A little fiber will help keep the traffic moving, know what I mean? Fiber is nature's Zamboni!"

E-Scope suddenly grabbed the bowl of potatoes away from Owen, and dumped it onto her plate. While Harold, Gwen, and Trent watched with perplexed faces, the unpredictable redhead worked the potatoes with her fingers and a pair of folks, sculpting it like clay.

"Whatcha doing there, E?" asked Owen, his eyes fluttering with affection.

The crazy girl's gaze never left the mound of potatoes. "Oh, just something that's been stuck in my head," she quipped. "Yeah, remember back on the island, when I was still on the run from the RCMP?! Well, I was staying with a family of bears, but then they kicked me out of their cave – and after I hooked up their X-Box for them! Jerks. But anyway, so I crashed out in the forest, when suddenly this _biiiiiig_ spaceship came over me in the middle of the night! Yeah! There was this bright light, and I felt all kinda floaty, and then I blacked out! And then I woke up the next day on top of a beaver dam, with an image of a mountain top imprinted in my brain!" With a final flourish, the potatoes had been turned into a small replica of a grooved mountain, topped with a large plateau. "They're _coooooooming,"_ she said in a spooky voice. Then she wiggled her eyebrows at Owen, seductively. "Give ya three guesses where they stuck the tracking chip, Big Guy!"

While the table gave E-Scope a baffled stare, Bridgette, Beth, and Lindsay gingerly walked up to the counter, where Duncan was already looking over their dinner selection with a frown. Chef loomed behind the counter with a rusty spatula in his fist, silently daring anybody to make a comment about his cooking.

Duncan held out his plate with disgust. "Just give me whatever you got that's deep fried, Emeril."

Lindsay made a face as Chef scooped up a pile of coal-black chicken nuggets. "_Ewwww_, Duncan, all that oil and grease is _really_ bad for you!"

"True, but if it's deep fried, then at least I know that it's _dead_."

"A valid point," sighed Bridgette. "I … I'll just have a bowl of fresh organic fruit, please."

Chef plopped a cereal bowl down with a loud _clank,_ filled with icy rock-hard colored chunks, crusted over with freezer burn. "Does this look like some new age hippie farm commune to you?"

Bridgette gulped, and quickly snatched the bowl away. "I'll … just … microwave this."

"You do that, granola cruncher," grumbled Chef. Then the big man seemed distracted, and took notice of the time on a wall clock behind the counter. "Whoops! Gotta get ready. The rest of you, hold your gosh darn horses for a second!" He walked through the door back into the kitchen, and his loud bellowing voice filled the commissary like an air horn. "Hey, Grumpy! Stop playing in the sink, get yer butt out there, and give those whiners their food! Heh-heh, don't worry, those dishes'll wait for you to get back."

Then the door swung open again, and Beth and Bridgette's jaws dropped in unison. Out walked a very messy and very tired counselor in training, grinding her teeth together as she snapped off a heavy pair of yellow rubber gloves. She wiped her wrinkled hands against her apron, and tucked a loose strand of sweaty brown hair back underneath her hair net, before picking up a heavy serving spoon. Then she saw who was standing right in front of her. "Oh, just _perfect_," she groaned.

Duncan grabbed onto the counter for support, looking like his lungs were going to explode right out of his cheeks. "Oh … oh no … oh no, man, this is just too much … gasp … gasp … oh man, it must be my birthday!" He knew he was going to pay for this later, but _sheesh_ … he was only human. "Oh, Princess, I … I know I should be doing the whole sympathy thing here, but ..." - he clutched his heaving stomach - "... oh, you gotta give me thirty seconds first! BWAAA HAA HAA HAAAAA ..."

"I knew I could count on you for _support,"_ she said, with a glare that could have ignited concrete.

"Oh my gosh, Court!" gasped Bridgette, after shooting a nasty look at the laughing punk. "You poor thing! What is Chris _doing_ to you?!?"

"Just what he said he was going to do," she sighed, slopping a ladle of chunky, greenish-yellow ooze on top of Beth's moldy bread. "Using us as interns for odd jobs and manual labor! And that's on top of all the rest of the stuff he made us do, to get this stupid run-down studio ready for the show! Like prepare all the sets ..."

* * *

"Impale him with a hockey stick," Eva grumbled under her breath, fantasizing about how many different ways she could think of to murder Chris McLean. She was up to thirty-seven. Her powerful arms were holding up one side of a a huge jungle-scene backdrop that was the size of a barn wall. "Okay, I need to tie it off on this side. You got this?!?"

Tyler was holding the other side of the backdrop, his arms shaking like jello. _"Puff_ … _puff_ … _puff_ … No problem!" he grimaced, as a puddle of flop sweat collected at his feet.

"Because this thing is pretty heavy, _cupcake."_

The jock shifted his weight and braced his legs, with an expression on his face that suggested he was about to deliver a baby. "_Huff_ … _hrrnghh_ … No problem! I'm all over this like a chimp on the monkey bars! _Yeah!"_

Eva flinched an eyebrow, then let go of her side of the backdrop to grab the rope. She heard a grunt. Then she heard the scenery topple over and slap the floor like a giant pancake. Then she heard Tyler's muffled cry for help coming from underneath the canvas.

Ignoring Tyler, a thought came to her. "Flatten Chris with a giant piece of scenery. Hmmm. Thirty-eight."

* * *

" … unpack the props and the costumes ..."

* * *

Katie and Sadie had almost finished emptying out a virtual mountain of wardrobe boxes. Wiping the sweat from her chubby cheeks, Sadie checked the label on a cute sailor's uniform, and climbed a wheeled ladder to store it in the appropriate bin on a very tall wall of storage shelves. "Wow, I can't get over all the clothes in here. Katie, this might not be so bad after all! It's like working retail in the world's ultimate mall! Check it out!"

Balancing on the ladder, Sadie grabbed a glamorous ostrich-feathered hat and slipped it on. "I'm ready for my close-up, Mister DeVille," she said, with a melodramatic grimace.

"Oh, _yaaaay!!!"_ squealed Katie, clapping her hands vigorously. "Oh, me now, me, me!" Katie grabbed a Roman legionnaire's helmet, and a plastic shield and sword. Giggling, she dropping her voice an octave. "We come to battle for the glory of Caesar!" she shouted, swinging the sword …

… And hitting the rolling ladder. Sadie shrieked in terror as the ladder rolled across the shelves, came to a sudden, jerking stop, and catapulted her into a pile of foam-rubber boulders.

* * *

" … and get all the cameras working!"

* * *

"I'm telling you, it's multiplexer, connected to junction box, connected to de-multiplexer," said Cody, as he held up two fistfuls of connector plugs.

Along with Noah, the two boys were tangled up head to toe in what seemed like miles of black electrical cable. "And I'm telling you that you have it backwards," Noah replied smugly. "Look, just let me handle the connections and you can ..."

Cody yanked the plugs away from the bookworm's impatient hands. "Hands off! Chris said _I'm_ hooking up all the closed-circuit cameras!"

Noah frowned, and grabbed the plugs anyway. "Yes, well, judging by the static on that wall of monitors behind you, you're doing a stellar job."

"I'll have it in two minutes!" "That's what you said four minutes ago." "Buzz off, Noah!" "OW! You buzz off!" The two physically stunted geeks broke out into a vicious slap fight, unaware of the quiet prairie boy who was walking in circles behind them, seemingly staring at the floor. Ignoring the cries of "Not the face!", Ezekiel traced the snaking paths of the cables for another minute before reaching down, and picking up two green-coded wires.

"Pretty shoor these two are s'poosed to go together," he said, connecting them.

Noah and Cody instantly went silent as their jaws locked in place, and their arms flailed around in random electric seizures. Noah's teeth chattered and his hair blasted out into a dark brown Brillo pad. Cody vibrated the shoes right off his feet, and smoke began to waft from his shirt. Finally the two of them let go of the cables, and collapsed to the floor with a pair of moans.

Ezekiel tugged nervously at the collar of his hoodie. "Uh … cameras are on, eh!"

* * *

As if to highlight the point, Courtney was interrupted by a blast of static and feedback from the PA speakers outside. They heard the faint whirring sound of auto-focusing cameras, mounted all around the commissary, which now blinked with tiny red dots. Still wincing from the feedback, the teenagers knew something was about to happen when all-too-familiar dramatic theme music blared out of the speakers … "dun DUN dunnnnnnn ..."

Chris McLean strolled through the swinging doors, wearing a powder blue tuxedo with wide lapels and a ruffled shirt, looking every bit the tacky game-show host. He held his arms aloft with a grin. "Hello there, castmates! Looks like our audio visual team has finally got things up and running! Suh-_weeeeet_!"

Duncan smirked, and shot a mocking glance at Harold. "Well whaddaya know, I guess geeks _are_ good for something besides Swirlie Practice."

Harold folded his arms with a huff and frowned back at Duncan. "You know, my inner ear hasn't been the same since! _Gosh!_ My hair got soaked, and twisted into a big orange spiral! Still didn't look as stupid as yours … _idiot!"_

The punk's hand clenched into a quick fist. "What was that, Dorkulus?"

Duncan took a pair of menacing steps towards Harold, who windmilled his arms into a ridiculous karate pose. But before any fireworks could erupt, LeShawna stepped in between them. "All right you two," she shouted, "you best check yourself before you wreck yourself! Now just sit down, at let Captain Hairdo up there explain how he's gonna mess with our heads _this_ season."

Duncan swatted LeShawna's hand away, and sat down with a grunt. Harold snorted a not-very-threatening response at his punk tormentor, then smiled at the object of his affection. "Thank you, my Mahogany Mistress ..."

"Whoa there, string bean," frowned the sister, pushing him away with a finger. "Put it in park."

* * *

**(Dressing Room Cam – No Toilets = No Swirlies!)**

**Harold** - "Duncan's just lucky I didn't go all Jeet Kune Do on his face! Wooo-_yaaaa_!"

**Duncan** - "Pffft, whatever. I have better things to worry about than a 98-pound mathlete. Besides, LeShawna won't always be there for you to hide behind, Harold."

**LeShawna** - "What is it with fool boys and their fool testosterone?"

* * *

Chris folded his arms, annoyed at being interrupted by the feuding boys. "Hey! Drop the gloves on your own time, people. We're on a schedule here! It is time to announce … the starting lineups for Total … Drama … _Action!"_

"So what is it, Bass and Gophers again?" asked Trent. "I'm good with that."

Around the room, many heads silently nodded. Even with all the drama that had gone down back in Camp Wawanakwa, a lot of strong friendships and romances had formed on the old teams, and people were counting on those relationships to see them through the next six weeks of torment. Geoff wrapped his arms snugly around Bridgette's slim waist, and delighted her with a warm kiss to the nape of her neck. Gwen just had time to roll her eyes at her hormonal friends before she had to stifle a gasp of her own, when Trent's hands found their way to her slender waist. He didn't kiss her – he knew she wasn't a big fan of PDA – but the hungering look that he gave her made her snowy cheeks burst into flame. Owen and E-Scope chuckled, and flicked applesauce playfully onto each other's noses. And Lindsay felt a bit sad, feeling like she should be snuggling, too, with someone, maybe someone wearing a red track suit … something about a name … five letters … beginning with the letter 'T' … hey, the leftover ketchup on her plate was making a smiley face! Oh, a smiley _kitty_ face! So _cute!_

Chris took notice of everyone's reactions, relishing what was about to happen. "No, Trent, a brand new season calls for two brand new teams!"

The commissary doors swung open again, and in came a large, rotating lottery ball machine, pushed by Marcus the intern. That captured most of the castmates' curiosity. So did the eyeball-melting image of Chef, who had made a quick wardrobe change into a floor-length, aquamarine, sequined cocktail gown. At least it silenced all the commotion and chatter in the room. Marcus plugged in the lottery machine, and as the big drums started to spin up, he erected a large poster next to it that looked a little like a baseball scoreboard. Then he noticed the red lights on the active cameras. His eyes glazed over, and a lump formed in his throat, and as soon as he had finished setting up the scoreboard, he seemed to _duck_ behind it.

Heather smirked at the intern. "Camera shy much? You sure picked the right job, _genius."_

"The lovely Chef here has fourteen ping-pong balls, representing each of you," explained Chris. The large, sequined black man emptied a bucket of balls into the lotto machine, and they began to bounce around crazily.

"You mean you're just going to pick the teams by random chance?" wheezed Harold.

"Wait, don't we get a say in this?" shouted Gwen, suddenly concerned.

The sadistic host clasped his hands together. "No. No, you don't. All right, the scoreboard has two rows on it, one for each team. As I pick each ball, Chef will put your picture on the scoreboard, alternating between rows until each one has seven cast members on it. See? It couldn't be simpler!"

As the teens resigned themselves to random chance, Chris reached for the first ball. "Oh, and I almost forgot. First two balls that roll out are the team captains! First up ..."

Chef held up a ball with a picture of a pony-tailed girl with thick glasses. "Beth!"

"M-m-me?!?" gasped the frumpy, awkward girl. "I'm a Captain?!?" She seemed to shrink before their collective eyes, as if someone had dumped a hundred-pound pack on her shoulders. Chef flipped through a stack of cast photos, took out a picture of Beth, and placed it in the first slot on the top row.

"And our second captain is ..." - the next ball had a dark-skinned gentle smile - " … DJ!"

"Captain?!?" he said, startled. "For reals?!? Hey, that's all right!"

"Beth, you'll be joined by … Owen! And DJ, coming on board with you is … Gwen!"

While Owen whooped enthusiastically and crushed Beth in a bear hug, Gwen gave DJ an easy smile, and a gentle fist-bump.

"Next up … Geoff! And … Harold! Beth's fourth teammate is … LeShawna!"

"Dang!" Harold groaned, watching LeShawna's photo go up on the board. He felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut; he was on the opposite team as his sweet chocolate goddess. LeShawna gave Geoff a high-five, and a sympathetic glance to Harold and her girl, Gwen. Gwen's shoulders sunk with a sigh of depression; she'd really been hoping to have her friend back on her team.

"Joining DJ is … Lindsay! Next up for Team Beth … Justin! Ha-hah, even the ping-pong ball is hot! And DJ, you're getting … Trent!"

Gwen's mood brightened considerably as she watched Trent's photo get placed on her team's row. They exchanged smiles, while Harold's mood was darkening further. While Beth was practically hyperventilating over the perfect cheekbones of her latest teammate, LeShawna was smiling dizzily at Justin too, in a semi-hypnotic state. Harold made a "got my eyes on you" gesture towards Justin. Justin didn't really notice.

"Our next two players are … Duncan! And … Izzy! I mean, E-Scope, E-Scope, _sheesh_, don't start with me!"

While Duncan shrugged indifferently, Owen fell to his knees and howled to the ceiling. "Sufferin' Savory Sausages, say it ain't so!" His bottom lip quivered as the photo of the wildly grinning redhead was placed on the opposite team. E-Scope patted his arm in an attempt to comfort the big lug. It didn't work, so she just stuck a corn dog in his mouth, which Owen sucked on like a baby's pacifier.

There were only two balls left in the machine … one with a picture of an easy-going, lovable surfer girl, and one with a picture of a calculating shrew with a bad wig. Gwen closed her eyes as the next ball rolled out. A fifty-fifty chance of getting stuck with Satan's stepdaughter.

"And now, last … and hey, possibly least … Heather! And Bridgette!"

The pink-shirted party boy, who had been relaxed and chilled one-quarter of a second ago, flung his arms into the air in a display that was even worse than Owen's. "NOOOOOO!!! Dude, NO, that is so seriously _heinous!!_ You can't split Bridge and me up on opposite teams! Can't we, like, swing a trade or something?" Geoff and Bridgette clung defensively to each other, looking at Chris with pleading eyes.

"No trades," answered Chris, shaking his head with a sadistic grin. "All selections are final! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, these are your teams for Total Drama Action! Beth, Owen, Geoff, LeShawna, Justin, Duncan, and Heather … you will be known as … the Screaming Gaffers!" Beth's pimple-pocked face beamed with pride as Chef placed a magnetic logo on the scoreboard next to her lotto ball, of a circle containing a stylized fist. She still couldn't believe she was actually a team captain! And that Justin … and his chiseled abs … and perfectly bronzed skin … was on her team! Her glasses fogged up as Justin flashed an almost-sincere smile at her.

Chris pointed at the smiling, broad-shouldered Jamaican-Canadian. "And DJ, Gwen, Harold, Lindsay, Trent, E-Scope, and Bridgette … from this point on, you will be known as … the Killer Grips!" Another logo went up on the scoreboard, this one of a light bulb atop of a set of crossbones, next to DJ's face. DJ clapped his hands enthusiastically, and wrapped a huge arm around Gwen and Harold. "All right, Killer Grips, this is gonna be an awesome season! Let's do it to it, people!!"

* * *

**(Dressing Room Cam – Sniff … nobody picked me.)**

**DJ - **"Hey, you know, I'm pretty jazzed about our chances! I've got a great bunch of teammates, we all like each other, and everybody wants to have fun! And that's what it's all about, dig? The Grips are gonna rip it up!" (He smiles confidently for a few seconds, then starts biting his fingernails.) "Man, I hope I don't mess this up!"

**Justin** – (smoothing an eyebrow) "Beth? Is our Team Captain? Oh, wow." (Smiles into the mirror.) "Degree of difficulty: zero. Ah-heh, heh, heh."

**Geoff** – (red-faced, wiping away tears) "Oh man, this is most definitely _not_ _cool,_ man! Bridge and I should be together! We're _meant_ to be together, dudes. We're, like, totally sympatico! And Bridge is always talking about that karma and cosmic harmony stuff … doesn't that mean we're meant to be on the same team?" (Folds his arms with a scowl.) "I think karma's broken, dudes!"

**Bridgette** – (sighing sadly) "Okay, so this season is getting off to a really lousy start. Maybe I should look on the bright side. I'm not stuck on a team with Heather. And I'll get to hang out with Gwen more, and Harold and Lindsay are pretty cool people …" (hugs her knees to her chest) "... and it's not like I'm _not_ going to see Geoff around, so I guess it'll be okay. Right?"

* * *

Back at the trailers, twilight was falling as the castmates wound down at the end of a long, tiring day. A struggle of epic proportions was taking place. Gwen, Trent, and Harold had their arms wrapped around Bridgette's waist. Duncan, LeShawna, and Justin had their arms wrapped around Geoff's waist. And they were heaving with all their might, trying to separate the surfer and the cowboy from their empassioned episode of face-sucking. It was like trying to pull a pair of bathroom plungers apart. Something had to give, and that something was Duncan's grip. He slipped and fell back into the grass, gasping for air as LeShawna's ample booty landed on his gut.

"Aw, forget it, let 'em turn each other inside out," he grumbled, dusting his hands against each other.

"Yeah, let 'em have their special time," laughed Owen, as he relaxed on the ground. "The world needs more love."

"Long as we get to watch and take notes," added E-Scope, sitting on Owen's shoulders. "And, take short videos to upload to ViewTube."

"Sheesh, would you two tonsil jockeys take a reality pill," huffed LeShawna, as she got back to her feet. "She's just on a different team, Geoff. Ain't like she's being sent to Siberia or somethin'."

With a loud moist _pop_, Geoff drew away from his uber-babe's lips with a bittersweet smile, and ran his fingers through her blonde ponytail. "I … I suppose you're right. I mean, even if we were on the same team, we'd be in different trailers anyway … right babe?"

Bridgette rubbed a warm tear from her eye, and smiled back. "Well … at least _initially_," she giggled.

"Oh, gag-o-rama," moaned Heather, planting her hands on her hips. "Break out the fire hose."

Beth was on the way to the washrooms to rinse out her retainer, but couldn't turn down a chance to get a dig in at her old nemesis. "What's the matter Queen Meanie," she smirked, "suffering from a little makeout envy?"

Heather shot back an ice-cold _how-dare-you_ look. "I'm surprised you even recognize what making out _is,_ when it doesn't involve a framed picture of a Jonas brother."

"You better be careful," grinned Beth, with newfound confidence that surprised a few people. "Sassing back to your team captain is insubordination! I'll get LeShawna to lock you in one of the porta-potties!" Beth enjoyed a few cheers of encouragement and "way to go" for putting the queen bee in her place.

But Heather wasn't done. "No, _you're_ the one that needs to be careful. One of your team members is dating the enemy now … well, two, if you count whatever Chubby and Psycho do as 'dating'. Can you say 'conflict of interest'?"

The commotion died down, and things grew abruptly silent. Everyone was paying attention now, digesting what Heather had just said. An uneasy tension began to build in the air, as everyone exchanged questioning glances. Nobody wanted to agree with Heather, but suddenly nobody could disagree with her, either. Emboldened, Heather took a step towards Geoff, and pointed an accusing finger at him. "You know how Chris loves to play with our heads. So what happens if he puts Geoff and Bridgette against each other in a competition? Would lover boy here take a dive, if it meant keeping his sweetie from getting voted off?"

"Knock it off, Heather," snarled Gwen. "You're just trying to stir things up. Geoff would _never_ do that." She shot a reassuring smile to her party-dude friend. "I trust him."

"Fine," said Heather, with a shrug of her shoulders. "You trust him. If that's what you want to believe, go right ahead. But what if he _did_ do it anyway, and it wound up getting you voted off?"

The tall, slender prima donna glanced around at her thirteen fellow castmates, leveling them all with a dangerous stare. Throughout the day, ever since leaving the Playa Des Losers, those thirteen pairs of eyes had stared back at her with a mixture of hatred and contempt – but not fear, certainly not like the intimidating fear she inspired in them back during the first season. In its place, she saw an annoying resolve, a growing resistance that gave creeps like Beth, Gwen, and Lindsay the strength of will to tell her off, right to her face. She knew she would never truly intimidate them again, and that irritating thought stuck in the back of her mind, like a pebble in her shoe. She would never make them afraid, again. At least … not of _her._

"Everyone is laughing and smooching and clowning around like we're having a big party. Well, guess what, people? We're not here to make friends or suck face. We are here to win … one … MILLION … dollars." She pointed around at everyone. "Remember what we were willing to do to each other a few days ago, when we were chasing around after that briefcase? Think about _that_, when you're wondering whether or not you can trust somebody. Or _anybody."_

Tossing a hand towel over her arm, Heather tucked her toiletry bag under her arm and marched towards the washrooms. Behind her, thirteen teenagers shared an awkward silence.

"Umm … Chris said that the first challenge is tomorrow morning," said Harold. "We, uh … we should probably hit the sack now. You want to get a solid eight hours of sleep for maximum brain function."

With a few grunted good-nights, the castmates made their way into the trailers. The lights were out an hour later.

* * *

**(Dressing Room Cam – You can trust me! Umm … one million dollars, huh?)**

**Duncan** – "Hate to say it, but Chrome Dome is right. For a million bucks, I'd do just about anything. To anybody. Heck, to anybody's _grandma."_

**Beth – **"Heather's wrong! Everyone here is so nice! Nobody would betray my trust just for a lousy … million … dollars …" (taps her teeth nervously) "... would they?"

**Gwen** – "We shouldn't have shaved her head, we should have cut out her tongue. What a bi-" (STATIC)

**E-Scope** – "So I was checking out FleaBay, and you know what you can buy with a million dollars? A old Russian tank! No, seriously! _Ohhhh_, baby. What's that? You say I can't park in the principal's spot? Heh, heh, heh … I beg to differ!" (Makes crushing noises.)

**DJ** – "Momma always says, money is the root of all evil. _Ulp_. Million bucks is an awful lot of money."

* * *

Another epic battle was taking place over in the intern's quarters, which was really just a dusty, unused corner of Sound Stage Thirteen that was more like a cluttered warehouse full of half-forgotten junk. Tyler was wrestling with his folding cot, and so far, the cot was winning.

Katie and Sadie, exhausted from a long day of hard work with costumes and props, were already out like a pair of lights in twin sleeping bags, as if the whole adventure were a giant sleepover. Eva had wrapped a gray blanket around her muscled frame, and was sleeping soundly on her cot, her frowning face an unspoken warning to the unlucky fool who would wake her up. Likewise, Cody and Noah were already asleep, Cody with a portable GameStation clutched in his hands, Noah with a copy of _Crime and Punishment_ resting on his chest.

"Hoory up Tyler," muttered Ezekiel, laying in his cot as if his limbs were made of spaghetti. "Yer keepin' me awake! I'm soo tired my toque hurts, eh."

"Let me give you a hand," whispered Marcus, who had just finished filling out a pile of Chris' paperwork. He carefully tiptoed around a snoring Courtney, and with his additional pair of hands, he and Tyler quickly had the troublesome cot unfolded and in place.

"Hey, thanks a lot, man," said the teen jock, as he unrolled his NHL All-Star sleeping bag. "Man, I don't think I've ever been this sore before in my life. And that includes football practice."

"Don't worry, it gets worse," chuckled Marcus, wiping his messy blond hair out of his eyes. "Well hey, you guys did all right today. Everything's pretty much set up and ready for the War Movie challenge tomorrow, and only three hours late. Better get to sleep though, we have to get up at five in the morning."

"Wonderful," grumbled Tyler, punching his pillow to get it comfortable.

Marcus slid on top of his own cot, only pausing to kick off his shoes. "Hey, Tyler? You guys are okay. Sorry I had to meet you like this, though."

"Well, it's not your fault. We just kinda got screwed around, by Chris."

"Mmmph," muttered Marcus, half-asleep already. "Join the club."

"Hmmm?" Tyler propped himself up on one elbow, to ask the intern just what he meant … but Marcus was already sawing logs. In fact, everyone was sound asleep now. Except for the teen sports star.

Perfect.

He reached under his pillow, and pulled out a videotape labeled "TDI Message From Home – Tyler." The video from the forgotten bag of mail.

Moving quietly and carefully, he snuck out of bed and headed towards the door. It opened with the faintest of creaks, but nobody woke up. Exhaling with relief, Tyler took off with his video tape, heading for the audio-visual center.

* * *

Continued in Chapter Three

* * *


End file.
